


braid me alive

by settely



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Drug Abuse, F/M, Friendship, Guilt-ridden Sherlock, Kidnapping, Longing, M/M, Not every case is your average case, Other, Pent-up emotions, Pre-Slash, Slow-paced story, Slowly going mad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 22:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/settely/pseuds/settely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fine as long as everything goes according to the plan, even the most horrible one, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theater

His fingers are so pale against my throat. They snaked their way up the shoulders and ended on my neck silently before I had the time to react. He shrugs his coat off clumsily, the neckline delicately pulling at his hair, locks spilling over some violet tie I see for the very first time on him. Nice colour. Suits him just fine.

 

'I thought we agreed. We agreed, didn't we?' The coat falls to the floor noiselessly, a cloud of chalk-like powder making small clouds around the place. My voice breaks a little at the end and I know, I just know it's the end. Lips so dry when I snatch a glance at him. I begin to smile, nothingness drowning in his eyes.

 

He shushes my whisper with a fist to the cheekbone. I feel it breaking at the impact and my smile grows only wider, tears stinging in the corners.

 

'I thought we agreed it had been for the best, love.' 

I giggle helplessly, trying tiredly to pry off his fingers. It's a game, just a game that won't end even after going across the horizon. His face is hollow, eyes dark with things I thought he'd never guess. It's only fair that he learnt them himself though and I'm so proud of him in that one fleeting moment when my head lolls back and forth in his hands. The air smells of his cologne and I laugh with tears falling down his fingertips.

'You were worth it, love. You were so worth it!' I gurgle, air escaping my eyes.


	2. Masks

Masks are so colourful on the shelves when Sherlock finally finds the damned place and comes in rushing. Some are those Venetian ones John told him once about, with mysterious hollow eyes and lips pressed into a fine line, an expression full of emptiness and yet a bit of hope. Because if you can't foresee the next action, it still can be either good or bad – there is some place for the choice. He slams the door and some of them fall onto the floor, glitter clinging to his coat, plastic breaking under his boots.

 

Where are they, where are they, where...

 

He keeps running though corridors full of dusty unused costumes, manikins and paper craft, clown faces sneering at him and small pieces of old toys slippery under his feet. The building is huge, combined halls mixing up and constantly leading him back to the square one. He slams his fist onto the wall when he finds himself for the third time beside a naked masculine dummy.

 

Suddenly there's a flicker of light on his left and he begins creeping along the wall, his breath hitched.

A knife is pressed to his ribs the next second and Sherlock swears aloud, his palms sweaty when he quickly turns his head around.

 

The man's face is hidden all the way up the nose behind a mask similar to the ones he's seen earlier. It's blue and full of silver-like feathers on the forehead, black ornamental tears running down the cheeks, crystals on the bones glooming dimly in the light. Apart from it, he's dressed casually. A white shirt, black jeans and as far as Sherlock can see, greenish sneakers. He's of middle height and skinny. His lips move silently, a smile, an angry line, a pout. These expressions are so meaningless and out of place that Sherlock's eyes glaze over with the heat pulsing from his chest, his hands curling into fists ready to knock him out for at least half an hour.

With the corner of his eye he catches Moriarty standing behind the man, cupping a Vis pistol heavily in his hand.

 

'So glad you finally made it, darling.' He sways his hips lightly to the side, feet crossed near the door to some room Sherlock hasn't seen. There are flicks of rainbow lights on his face and suit. He casts a quick glance onto his watch, tsking. 'You dress yourself awfully long, you know. Nice colours though, the tie matches your eyes quite fine.'

 

His laugh is like pitter-patter of golden droplets of malice into Sherlock's ears.

 

'You must be quite wary after running around for so long, oh dear.' Moriarty drawls, taking in the sweat on his forehead. He smiles lightly, ice in that small movement sending chills down Sherlock's spine. 'Perhaps you'd do a... How does your little pet call it? Ah. A cuppa. He's such a sweetheart, you know, no wonder you insist on having him around.'

 

He walks up to Sherlock, teeth blazing.

 

'What do you want?" Sherlock asks, facing him. The blade of a combat knife digs into his side but it's bearable. He grimaces at the blue mask, focusing solely on Moriarty. Jim, Jim, Jim. Silly little gay Jim. 'Where's John?'

'Ah, so nervous. So much anger in that body. Really, dear, you should've already learnt that acting out on emotions is a bad thing, especially for people like us.' Moriarty lightens a cigarette, looking bored all of the sudden. His lighter is pink and so is his shirt. 'And Johnny boy is lovely. Really, I wonder why I haven't spotted him sooner. Talks gibberish all the time, though. Don't know, maybe you haven't accustomed him to drugs after all.'

 

Sherlock looks startled for a moment, his own mask of well-hidden anger falling down for a second. 'What did you say?'

 

Moriarty puffs the smoke directly into his face, eyeing the ceiling. 'You heard me quite well, I believe. People find my accent strange but still, I know what I'm saying. Your little dog really doesn't do drugs with you? Such a pity! I'd have had much more fun with him if he had already known the feeling.'

 

He inhales deeply, snickering at Sherlock's cough. 'But well, he'll just have to start enjoying it as much as you do, huh?'

 

Sherlock wants to lunge at his throat that moment but before he can twist the knife away from himself, Moriarty and the man are long gone and sheer darkness encircles his sight. Smoke is milky white in the room and as crazy as it might sound, it tastes kind of like John's deodorant.


	3. Messages

Winter this year is awful and Sherlock is soon shivering, soaking wet under his paper-thick coat when he runs out from the ghostly warehouse. Snow melts onto his flushed face quickly, its crystals constantly getting caught up between his eyelashes. It's mid-afternoon, street lanterns already drawing circles of fierce orange, blue and gray across his eyelids, puddles as deep as an ocean catching one of his feet from time to time into their depths. Sherlock stumbles, lack of nicotine going up to his head. He didn't have time to buy new patches, he didn't have time to sleep, to eat, to think out his actions thoroughly. It's all going to hell, piece by piece.

A sudden noise sobers him up a bit, a buzzing sensation going up his tight. He quickly snatches his mobile from the pocket, its pink as bubblegum casing looking as out of place and ironic as usually.

There's an icon of some new messages. He pushes the buttons blindly, trying to unblock the keyboard. He leans on a banister leading up some staircase to a three-storeyed block of flats. This time he's not even surprised upon not noticing it earlier, mind focused on just one thing.

 

Where are you, John?

 

His fingers are cold and the mobile burns his hand with its heat, making Sherlock quiver with frustration. A rambling stream of curses is the only sound being heard in the alley the moment he perceives he cannot unblock the mobile.

 

'The hell is wrong with it now?' He's got no time for that, hands trembling. This mobile has never caused him any problems so far. Now the time for some, huh? The realization dawns on him the next second.

 

He forgot the password.

 

He forgot the motherfucking password.

 

'FOR FUCK'S SAKE!' It must be a dream, a messed up, horrible nightmare. Firstly John, then that pitiful excuse of a brother and now the only thing being able to help him get his blogger back. The whole pent up anger, frustration of those past few lonely nights get to Sherlock finally. He kicks his feet around, coat opening and swaying around him like some cheap parody of bat's wings. He's cold, hungry and tired. Tired of worrying, trying to keep up his cold mask of a face, to not feel afraid after the meeting with Moriarty. It's all too surreal to be true, even the snow on his lips tastes funny, lemon-like. Finally, he slams his big toe on the metal banister in front of him and accidentally, one of his hands too. 'Fuck, fuck, FUCK!'

 

It all hurts like hell and Sherlock's fairly sure he's just broken one of his fingers, tears gathering in his eyes at the pain. Or maybe something else too? He grits his teeth at the thought, salty, lemon-like water pouring lazily down his cheeks.

 

It's been already eight days since John was gone and that bastard, that pompous brat didn't find it important, didn't find it needed to pass the knowledge of that fact on him.

 

Sherlock thought John stayed the whole week at Sarah's. It was... highly probable, at least in the beginning. He himself told Sherlock that after so many rows the two have had in the previous months, it was high time for him, John, to get some fresh air. To be with someone who truly admired and liked him for who he was. And he certainly wasn't anybody's sidekick.

And so, with two suitcases full of clothes, books and a new shiny laptop tucked under his arm, John Watson left Baker Street on Monday, the 17th at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning and took a cab directly to...

 

Where to, exactly?

 

Sherlock promised himself that day, after playing violin just for kicks for at least an hour as there was no one currently to tell him off for doing so, that he wouldn't call. Neither that day, nor the next one. He would wait for the doctor to give in and admit he had been wrong for leaving him behind just like some old piece of furniture.

 

But the call never came.

 

Sherlock, to his own astonishment, was beginning to get worried after the fourth day without any signal from John. Sure, it did happen before that one of them would disappear soundlessly into the night but never without contacting the other at least two days after such a decision. Days without John beside him, were BORING. Boring, boring, boring and well. Lifeless, to sum up all of Sherlock's thoughts on the whole situation in just one word. He couldn't ask anyone to look for the phone he had in his breast pocket, check out latest updates on John's blog peeking from behind his arm, sip tea for hours in that warm kitchen of theirs while John would read his newspaper. And he couldn't drink milk once again, for as always the fridge had been deprived of it earlier by no one else but John.

It was sad to not have John for such a long time around. He texted him that evening, on 21th at exactly 8 o'clock in the evening, asking where the hell he thought he was. He texted Sarah and Harry too. And Lestrade, just to mess up with the poor guy's head.

Sarah wrote him that she hadn't seen John for two weeks now for she was currently in France, doing some business Sherlock didn't even bother to read about. And Harry called him some minutes later, slurring and mixing up words he couldn't understand at all.

John should have called immediately, just like always. But a call from him never came.

 

Sherlock has never panicked before, especially because of some trivial things like emotions. And over people, pawns in the whole game of the universe.

 

But it was and is all about John.

 

John.

John.

John.

John.

 

That's it! "John" is the password!

 

Sherlock types it quickly, almost dropping the phone in relief. He goes to the messages' section. There are two new messages, both from... No one?

Sherlock doesn't want to admit it, but with every minute he doesn't know where John actually is, he slowly begins to feel somewhat frightened and vulnerable . He opens the first one with a quivering finger, half wishing it to be Mycroft complaining about his broken cheekbone. Stupid scoundrel, Sherlock should have, now he's sure of it, break something far more dear to a human than just a single bone. A whole ribcage would have suited him just fine.

 

The first message is only two lines long but it's enough to make his insides stop.

 

_Puppy's sick. Fancy a shot?_

 

But it's the other one that does the trick and Sherlock fists a scream of utter frustration and misery.

 

_Oops. No cash left, oh dear._

 

He tries to steady his breath afterwards, gritting his teeth. The next second he's waving for a cab.

 

Something tells Sherlock he must get home as soon as possible.


	4. Cigarettes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZNEOl4bcfkc - the aria the cabby is listening to in the beginning. One of the most popular classical pieces. 
> 
> English translation:
> 
> The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,  
>  Death and despair flame about me!  
>  If Sarastro does not through you feel  
>  The pain of death,  
>  Then you will be my daughter nevermore.  
>  Disowned may you be forever,  
>  Abandoned may you be forever,  
>  Destroyed be forever  
>  All the bonds of nature,  
>  If not through you  
>  Sarastro becomes pale! (as death)  
>  Hear, Gods of Revenge,  
>  Hear a mother's oath!

The ride isn't pleasant by any means. Road is bumpy, the air in the cab stuffy with sweat and old tobacco and yet, it's freezing, breath going out in milky cloudlets. Sherlock snuggles into his coat, trying not to think how wet in reality it is. Cabby is constantly smoking Marlboro menthol cigarettes, gesticulating lividly. Even though Sherlock hasn't said anything beside roughly whispered _Baker Street_ to him, he has already shared with him some juicy gossip on some girl whose name was identical with some capitol, the youngest Windsor boy and asked for his opinion on the colour he should paint his summer house this year. If Sherlock heard right, the cabby was going to paint it purple.

Sherlock looks out the window, not even bothering to pretend being interested in his ramblings.

Ice flowers on the pane catch his attention. They are marvelously fragile in their complexly, each blossom different and yet so fitting in with the others. Sherlock traces some leafs with one of his fingertips, coldness making it quickly numb. It's so refreshing all of the sudden, he think to himself, puffing lightly onto the glass. It shimmers delicately under his breath, lanterns smudging away, dancing across his eyelids with their dimmed light. Snowflakes fall from time to time onto the pane and Sherlock observes them intently, tracing each of them with a fingernail. He huffs more onto the window and soon it mists over completely, a new opaque surface meeting his eyes. Sherlock touches it pensively, unconsciously drawing a lopsided smile. A teardrop. A broken heart and a string. He toys with his fingers for a moment, the man suddenly not talking anymore. Ah. He switched the radio on.

Or rather a CD player installed into it.

The cabby doesn't look like a person who'd enjoy classical music and yet he sure does. He hums to a well-known Mozart's piece Sherlock thinks, if the echo in the cab doesn't deform the sound too much. Hell. It's quite an interesting discovery but Sherlock really doesn't feel interested enough, too focused on the pane. He tries not to hear the high notes piercing through his skull, or try to count the tapping noises the man seems to make trying to catch up with the rhythm of the opus. It's bothersome at best, especially when he remembers just how long exactly it took him to get to that damned warehouse in the first place.

Damn.

Stars are blinking lazily at Sherlock through some lopsided grins and letters he's drawn. He's frustrated. Bored. Hungry. Alone. Little "J"s flow across the pane, followed by "S"s and his head feels so heavy all of the sudden. The cab sways slowly through the streets, occasionally stopping at lights, his coat is warm, full of exquisite smells he hasn't noticed before and soon, a wonderful mist encircle his senses completely.

A sudden choc and a stream of curses wake Sherlock with a jolt. He is still in the cab and it looks like it's the middle of the night already. He can't remember his dream, shreds of some talks, pictures slowly melting into thin air and yet echoing dully in his head, his nostrils full of something akin to male cologne. Even though it cost him several dozen priceless minutes, Sherlock must say he feels now a lot better. His head is clearer and although he'd never willingly admit it, his insides seem to function properly at last, that unbearable pressure and aching he's felt for the past few days near his breast bone a bit smaller and not as absorbingly bothersome as before. He's calmer, colder and more collected.

 

'What's the matter, sir?' He asks the driver when they soon begin to move once again, a new kind of cigarette never leaving the cabby's mouth. His face is a bit flushed, hair a mess. The newest milky smoke tastes kind of like chocolate or vanilla, Sherlock isn't entirely sure. 'Where are we? Is it Westminster City already?'

 

'Huh? No sir, we haven't left Greenwich yet. We're still on the right side of The River Thames. Must've fallen asleep some time ago, now haven't you, sir?' The man chuckles for a moment, glancing at Sherlock in the rear-view window. He winks at him the moment their eyes meet. 'I'm not too surprised considering the weather. On the other hand, for God's sake, I'll never understand those pairs going clubbing five to midnight! Firstly they get drunk, then do obscene things on the street and lastly fall asleep in the middle of it. A few inches closer and that girl wouldn't be able to kiss her guzzling booze boyfriend any time soon!'

 

Sherlock nods numbly, running his fingers through the hair. He leans onto the back of his seat, once again gazing through the window. It's greyish, warm lights making the flowers sparkle once again. Snow is still falling but compared to the outskirts, there are very small amounts of it on the sidewalks in this part of the city. Streets are dirty with mud-coloured water and old dead leaves, their brownish, sad almost look making him feel uncomfortable. He wonders whether it's possible or not to get pneumonia because of a badly picked overcoat. Or maybe this one is a good one after all? Sherlock snickers at pettiness of his thoughts, trying to think of John.

 

Well, cross that one out. It's surely not the brightest of his ideas. To tell the truth, none of the recent ones is bright, not even convenient or thought-out

He was far too judgmental, too jealous to see the point in John's requests and then threats. Really, is it that hard to clean the flat once in a while? To not play the violin at three in the morning when the other has a job and must sleep well in order to get them some money? To buy some of the goddamn milk when there is only an empty carton in the fridge? To not make those smart-ass comments when nobody really needs them? To not be so cold?

Truth be told, it's hard to keep doing those things beside John.

Especially beside him.

 

He's not sure what the time now is or how long he has been thinking melancholy, eyeing either the pane or the street. He once again wants to sleep, pulling his knees up to his chest as close as possible. He can nearly see John's face in front of him, eyelids heavy with promises of a moment of instantaneous forgiveness and utter, blissful oblivion. He wants to see that face once again, desperately needs to whisper those three clichéd words into his ear and be able to touch him, to know that even though he, Sherlock, has himself screwed that one pretty nicely, it's just a moment, just a nightmare that will soon end. Smells mix up against his face and now that he closes his eyes once more, they all create a wonderful, fantastic world, blowzy thoughts turning slowly into liquid lines of shallow words, guilt burning his insides with its fire, slowly, hauntingly reminding all the way to the ground of his mind that it could have been done differently, that today could have looked more beautiful, more regret-less.

 

Then, when he begins to clench his fists to prevent the tears from selfishly falling down onto the collar of his coat, lips quivering at the unfairness of it all, his mobile lights up, buzzing in one of his pockets nervously, a melody suddenly slipping in between his thoughts.

 

Now that he thinks of it, changing his ring-tone and choosing a sound resembling John's laughter for the new one was a bad idea. A very bad one indeed.

 

Sherlock can't help feeling at least a bit hopeless when he presses the green earpiece, not even bothering to shush his swear when no one answers his _Hello?_ , the silence and that dull noise of a broken connection heavily echoing in his ears. It's all a game, a game which will end eventually, in a tiresome way but when, nobody knows that.

 

Sherlock highly doubts the possibility of Moriarty knowing it himself.

 

A message appears on the screen after a minute or two and Sherlock greedily opens it, not noticing a grim look aimed at him by the cabby. It's noticeably a bit longer than those previous ones, with a smiley added at the end. Before he can have the chance of reading the newest piece of information though, the mobile makes a few high beeping noises as more messages come. Sherlock is sure he doesn't like it.

 

_Wifey, Puppy's really sick. We're out of Dicodid already but hey. Vicodin to the rescue! ;)_

His skin is still moist but the tremor seems to be the matter of the past.

 

_I've always known I'd make a nice doc._

_Ah, he looks happy._

_Oops, knocked out once again._

_Ritalin ought to make him more responsive once again, don't you think?_

 

Sherlock can't move. It must be a joke, a dream, a horrible, disfigured vision.

 

_Or maybe a good dose of Strychnine? Hmm..._

 

John. John. John.

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn

John.

JOHN.

 

_Look out the window, darlin'._

 

Sherlock dizzily does what he has been told, opening the window. They're currently in Soho district, driving through some dark, narrow street. There are lots of alley cats lazily opening their coats at the sight of men coming their way, wiggling at the spot, queans waving at people going up the street to come 'nd enjoy what they're offerin'! Show windows tint the snow lying around the lanterns most of the whores curve beside bloody, ornaments on the grating arabesque-like on the ground. Some done up to kill girls wink at him, pouting with their pinguid from some old lipsticks lips, gathering up their dresses and either flashing their enormous, brownish boobs at him or mooning him.

Sherlock's face wrinkles in distaste, but he doesn't look away. He can't, he doesn't dare to. The air smells foully, of old garbage and dead animals, excrement mixing up with the snow and some stagnate, revolting water flowing near the steps to some brothel whose male occupants hail at him, fondling the front of their pants, gazing at him lustfully.

He doesn't know what he should be looking for and that futile, burning need to act, to DO SOMETHING drives him insane.

And then, something white catches his eye. At first Sherlock doesn't believe he truly sees it, his senses screaming at him that it can't be possible. But he's too desperate to not believe in miracles.

He cries for the cabby to stop and the moment he can, he jumps out of the car, nearly falling flat onto his face into the snow. His legs are jelly-like but Sherlock needs to get up, needs to move, needs to see if he's already gone crazy in the past few hours or not yet. He levers himself up and runs for it, as if nothing has ever mattered as much as this one run, this one quick movement.

 

In the furthest corner of a westward alley, John's ivory sweater weaves tiredly over some laying figure, its sleeves torn and bloodied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Dicodin and Vicodin are drugs whose main aim is to relieve moderate or severe pain. If used orally, their effect is one and a half stronger than the one of morphine's. It's very easy to become addicted to those drugs. Side effects include convulsion, moist skin, faints, muscle twitches, hearing loss or unusual fatigue. They both consist of hydrocodone and paracetamol.
> 
> * Ritalin is a drug used to treat ADHD, narcolepsy, depression or obsessive-compulsive disorder. On the whole, it increases the level of dopamine in the brain and its pharmacological effects resemble those of cocaine. It stimulates the central neuron-system. It arouses average men and calms down those ever so lively (vide: used for treating ADHD).
> 
> * Strychnine is an alkaloid widely known for its toxic properties. It stimulates neurons, causes muscular convulsions and eventually death through asphyxia or sheer exhaustion. Many people use it for killing rats, birds or wild dogs (vide: Australia).


	5. sweater

It feels as if Sherlock was caught up in the middle of a slow-motion capture.

He is still running, arms moving up and down hysterically, eyes opened wide and yet, it seems as if he hasn't moved an inch forward . He can see snowflakes falling slowly in front of his nose, lantern's light delicately playing through grains of dust a few inches to his left, smudges of mist-like cigarette smoke going up in the air in cloudlets meters away. It's unrealistic, surreal at best and driving him mad with the sheer complicatedness. Perhaps by other circumstances, when it wouldn't be about that one person, about John, he'd laugh at just how marvelous the world can sometimes be, but not now, not this minute, not the next one. He has no time for such thoughts, for foolishness. All those days ago, he let himself dwell to much onto such things and what, did it bring him anything?

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid little Sherlock.

Perhaps Mycroft was right after all. Yesterday, last month and all those year ago.

Perhaps he'll always be alone.

And it'll be all thanks to his own idiocy.

 

It's no use to think about that now though, coat lashing his legs heavily, scarf falling up and down his strained chest. Thinking such thoughts over and over again is reserved for the time of afternoon sprawling on that couch of theirs accompanied by rhythmical pitter-patter of John's fingers onto the keyboard, following with half-lidded eyes dimmed shadowy afterglow of searchlights from the street against the paper-hangings, clenching that damn peignoir and staring at a peculiar spot at the ceiling. John saying something over his shoulder, pointing at a gadget he's just found. Poring aloud whether it' s already time for the dinner or just tea, he shuffling and pretending to choose the going to sleep option instead, John just sighing and flashing a lopsided smile he's not sure if addressed at him or not in the end. Whispering threads of cooking the food himself if John really doesn't want to have anything eatable this evening and John not even frowning but getting up and walking into the kitchen, bickering just how he has found himself in all of this.

Blissful. Fulfilling. Ignorant.

Fine.

 

Sherlock feels his heart racing, the alley growing nearer and nearer in his eyes. He can't remember whether he told the cabby to wait up for him or not, the more thoughts come to his mind, the more unmistakable John's sweater gets, his hands colder and sweatier. The alley is faintly lit by two curved lanterns, their light bluish on his cheeks. Snow is slippery but Sherlock stumbles through, not stopping for a second. The figure clad in that knitted jumper doesn't move, hasn't moved an inch since he saw them and even though it might mean that one horrible thing, Sherlock tries to keep calm, tries not to dwell at least once at a newfound clue.

He just can't do that, not to John.

 

Even though it feels like an hour, the run lasts a couple of seconds, his pulse skipping, blood rushing to his neck and cheeks. He's a few feet from the person that must John, must be the end of this whole sick situation, a masquerade planned and done by a psychopath. Sherlock makes his last steps gingerly, trying not to be as relieved and happy as he feels now. It seems too easy, too damn naive to be true, to be real. He's soaking wet, his hair slicked-back thanks to the quickly melting snow and for the one time in his life, he just doesn't care whether it's far easier than usually, not as complicated as the last time John was gone, not as well motivated and perhaps played as before.

 

He wants him back, that stupid blogger who's got problems with technology offered at groceries, wears extravagant and perhaps self-made things no one but him admires. That guy who tells him his deductions are fantastic, who was brave enough to move in even while having all of those well-justified doubts.

The only person who finally cares and views him as whole, as someone he can spend and enjoy his time with. As another human being.

John.

John.

John.

If it ends now, Sherlock is sure he'll never do anything wrong, will try as hard as he can. Damn, he'll buy John a puppy both of them will strangle with hugs to death. Everything will be fine, he'll do the groceries and John won't go out alone ever again, he'll be at his side day and night and nothing will harm him, no, Sherlock won't let anything harm him again. No. Never again.

 

He's too precious, Sherlock realises with a painful delay, creeping up to the fallen figure.

 

'John!'

 

Now that he's close enough, he notices the man (for the shoulders are too wide, hands too quadratic and the whole outline of the body too awkward to belong to a woman) laying on his stomach being fearfully still. Sherlock's footsteps echo in his ears, the very same sweater John left the flat dressed in torn on the back, clinging with its wetness onto the jeans and thin blood-red shirt laying underneath. Sleeves have been ripped, arms protruding from them skinnier than Sherlock remembered them, ribs he sees showing from under the damp material too numerous, legs slimmer.

Has he been away for that long? Has he really lost him for more than a week to Moriarty? When he previously thought about it, it seemed less sinister but now, faced with the consequences and the painful realisation at what exactly happened or could have, Sherlock's legs shake and soon he collapses, wincing at the ice-cold water shimmering on the sidewalk the body lays on.

 

'John? John, do you hear me? John!' He gingerly brushes his fingertips over the wrists, trying to feel the pulse. These hands are freezing cold, veins visible and pulsing slightly underneath his fingers, the skin growing sickly blue. 'John, goddammit, John!'

 

How long exactly has he been here? There's so much water around the body, snow still falling, creating small pyramids on it and Sherlock desperately wants to believe it's not too late, that this miracle isn't just a nail to his coffin, searching frantically for that one sound, that one rhythm.

 

Finally, he reaches for the neck and presses his fingers firmly onto the skin, praying to every damn god he's never believed in.

_Don't do this to me, don't you even dare..._

And then there's a faint vibration, steady but dying every other moment.

He wishes he could gather up some tears, stupid droplets of an aqueous solution everybody seems to have loads of, but his eyes stay perfectly dry and still focused, even though the world seems to drift apart slightly, his thoughts in and out, escaping him.

 

He's not too late after all.

 

'John, John, John... ' He wants to take the man into his arms and say that everything is alright now, that they will leave and never have to see Moriarty ever again, that he'll be safe now, that nothing bad will happen again and he won't be ever hurt again as long as Sherlock lives. But those nearly formed on his lips words begin to die slowly the more he looks at the small frame in front of him, that uncharacteristic bone structure, breathing inaudible at first but then growing wheezing. He knows it's highly unwise to roll over people with potential spinal and chest damage but the doubts sink in, Sherlock's eyes growing wide at the realization that it really was far too easy.

 

Cautiously, with a heavy heart and tears finally stinging at the corners, he inserts one of his hands as delicately as he can under the man's throat and turns him around.

 

The next second Jim Moriarty is coughing at him dazedly with pain sharpening his features, blood oozing down his unseeing eyes.


	6. needles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian spelling and meaning of the words one of the prostitutes uses:  
> * kрасотка (krasotka) - darling  
> * любовник (lyubovnik)- lover (boy)  
> * aпостол Пётр (apastol Pyotr) - Saint Peter  
> * Диплом (diplom) - a degree / a diploma

Soon, Jim Moriarty shifts unconsciously in his arms, trying to snuggle into the warmth of his hands, blood on his face continuing to flow slowly, creating sticky streams down both sides of his cheeks. He's scrunching his nose every other second, gasp-like breath the moment he has to move his head. His eyes have been pierced through with something, a sickening mass of jelly-like flesh shimmering in the dimmed light. There are numerous bruises on his chest and purple fingerprints on his throat, long fiery lines done perhaps with fingernails and various bluish marks of injections smiling on the inside of his arms. A red silky shirt is opened fully at the front, clinging wetly to his chest, making him shiver. The back of his head is wet, colouring the water beneath him crimson.

 

Sherlock is speechless for a moment but then begins to tremble uncontrollably, clenching the front of John's jumper. He props the man up, shaking him and crying _Wake up! WAKE UP, for fuck's sake!_ His fists are sweaty and Jim's head lolls from one side to the other helplessly, neck cracking from time to time dully and he grits his teeth in the slumber. After a moment Sherlock smacks his face a couple of times but with the same effect, cheeks swollen and skin breaking under his fingertips.

 

Suddenly, a pair of girls still standing on the street comes up to them, a shared, nearly burnt down cigarette lighting the face of one of them.

 

'Found him here an hour ago, yo,' The taller redhead smacks her lips, trying not to shiver under her thin violet coat. She's clad in fishnets and a neon green summer dress, heels of her stilettos needle-thin, echoing on the street, 'but didn't call nine-nine-nine. After all, many sissies give their last show here.'

'Not that we enjoy 'em much.' Another girl with a slight Russian accent puffs the smoke away, her eyes shining sickeningly. She's smaller, her miniskirt and long-sleeved blouse fluttering on the wind. She begins to circle them slowly, glancing from time to time at Moriarty with interest. Sherlock doesn't pay the two much attention, staring at the sweater with unblinking eyes. 'Think he's got a concussion, sweetheart. Won't awake without a good dose of medications. Oh, guess he's either already in a coma or will need to be put into one. No luck, whatsoever.'

 

Sherlock spins around at that, his eyes wide and distrustful. 'How can you know that? You're not a doctor!'

 

The girl looks hurt for a moment but then laughs bitterly, coming up close to him and puffing the smoke right into his face just the way Moriarty did all those hours ago. 'Better call an ambulance this instant, _krasotka_ , or your _lyubownik_ will bleed himself to death. And then, not even _apastol Pyotr_ himself will be able to help ya, even if he's got _diplom_!'

 

Sherlock doesn't have time for petty quarrels with sassy foreign medicine students who have to sell themselves in order to live in London. He is sure of that, holding Moriarty's head in one of his hands while quickly snatching the mobile from his pocket.

 

There are no new messages.

He dials the number, closing his eyes.

The operator has a nice, deep voice and even though Sherlock tries hard to sound reasonable, he stammers a few times.

 

There's a badly beaten man lying on the street. Yes, he needs the police and an ambulance to come. Soho, a brothel alley. Happened at least an hour ago, yes, the state is really bad. No, Moriarty still breaths. Perhaps a robbery, he feels his jaw tightening. No, he's just found him. Okay, he'll stay calm. 

 

Yes.

Indeed.

Understood.

 

The casing is cold in his hand and Sherlock doesn't really know what he should do now. Girls have left while he was calling, Moriarty still as still as a stone just inches away.

 **Oh how those bones would crash lovely under his fists, he muses suddenly, windpipe snapping as easily as a match in just one movement. Ribs cracking and perforating both of the lungs. Liver and spleen bursting after some time from the cuffs, kidneys not able to filtrate the blood any more and slowly dying, internal bleeding just few seconds away.**  
Or maybe not. How would it feel if he broke every bone separately instead, not letting it to heal and then accrete, breaking every sinew and ligament?

Too improbable and bothersome to perform but hell, such silly thoughts seem to bring some odd comfort to him.

 

A thought comes to him after a moment. He forgot to riffle through Moriarty's clothes, thanks to all of those stupid, ignorant emotions.

 

'Oh, damn it all.' Sherlock whispers, carefully feeling both sides of the black jeans. Moriarty's hips are bony and sharp under the material and he quickly snakes his hands into the pockets. There's a soaked wet case with a mobile inside it in the right one and Sherlock quickly snatches it and sticks into one of the coat's. There are some crumbled scrapes of paper and two visiting cards in the left one and soon they're accompany the telephone. Slowly, he ghosts his hands over other parts but finds nothing more.

He can already hear the distant echo of alarm buzzers and really it's the last moment to quickly get the most valuable thing. He props the man against himself, Moriarty's head lolling onto his collarbone and Sherlock tries with all of his strength not to recoil in disgust at the touch. He lifts heavy with sleep arms unceremoniously, deaf at short, pained sighs and gasps. Roughly, the jumper comes unstuck, weighty with water and a faint but still lingering, scent of John.

Sherlock cradles it in his arms, throwing Moriarty off of himself delicately, watching his head. He lands on his back with a thud on the sidewalk and Sherlock smirks quietly. At least this much can be done now.

 

He draws his own mobile and dials Lestrade's number, clenching his hands on the jumper and crouching near the body.

There's some buzzing but eventually a sleepy, slurring voice fills the receiver. 'Sherlock? What the hell d'you want this time? It's four in the damn morning!' Some shuffling is being heard and a few muffled curses. 'I've been having the _best_ dream...'

 

'I found him.' A quick pause. 'I found Moriarty.'

'WHAT?' Something akin to the noise of cracking porcelain echoes on the other side. 'FUCK! Is John okay? Where are you?'

Sherlock stares into the distance, bringing the woollen jumper close to his face, trying to be strong. To face it. 'He's not here.' Change the subject, change the fucking subject. 'Moriarty has been blinded with either a needle of some sort and nearly beat to death.'

'What do you mean he's not with you? Sherlock, you said yourself that...'

'I know what I said, Lestrade. John isn't with him anymore.' It hurts, hurts so much. 'Come here at once.'

'But, Sherlock, why...'

'Please.' He feels tears slowly forming in the corner of his eyes and his voice breaking. He tries his best but still it trembles like a leaf on the wind. ' _Please_ come. I need you here.'

There's a moment of silence. 'Where are you?'

'Soho, near,' Sherlock spins around, trying to make out the name flickering on the glass-case of the biggest brothel, 'a bordello called Delightful Roses.'

'Okay, give me ten minutes.' The line grows silent the next second and Sherlock draws a shaking breath.

 

He wants to curl himself round the jumper and pretend it's all just a dream.


	7. Breath, part one

The air is heavy, consciousness slipping onto and out of his fingertips. Sherlock is pacing to and fro along the street, rumpling the clothing in his trembling hands. Moriarty breathes heavily, the sound echoing dully in the suddenly empty street. There are less and less girls, the nearer the howling of the sirens echoes across the skeletal buildings surrounding them and yet Sherlock notices neither the ambulance nor a few squad cars, that is, until the driving lights are shooting at him, square in the eyes. He winces, seeing only whiteness for a while.

 

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's cry fills the air a moment later and soon a slightly bulky shadow blocks the brightness entirely. He doesn't move an inch though, although arms are being outstretched forward and a grief-stricken face swims across his eyes, the man in front of him trying desperately to say something, to utter even just a sound.

A few minutes of unbearable silence last between them and it's only then that Lestrade slowly lowers his hands and roughly puts them into the pockets. Sherlock feels the lemon-like taste of regret slipping that moment past his tongue and he shamefully moves his gaze at the ground, jumper heavy, his fingers feeling boneless all of the sudden.

"Once again enjoying the little spotlight you can get yourself, aren't you now, freak?" Hips stroll to the side out of another car and Donovan smiles sharply, unpacking a fresh pair of latex gloves. They shimmer in the light just as coldly as her eyes and soon she winks at Sherlock, sneering silently. She's clad in that old mottled grey overcoat of hers and is trembling lightly under the wind hitting her fully on the naked throat from time to time. Her teeth blaze against the searchlights while she walks past him, perfumes clinging heavily to the air around her. "Finally tried yourself in the field of killin'? Huh, another bet won."

Sherlock doesn't even bother to acknowledge her comments, still avoiding Lestrade's keen eyes. He slumps his shoulders ever so slightly, moving out of her way when she finally pulls the gloves fully on with a sickening smack, strolling over to Moriarty. She narrows her dark eyes at that, gesturing for a few policemen standing right behind her to safeguard the street with the tape and telling some other to find bystanders at any cost.

"Not too talkative this morning, are we?" Donovan creeps up to him curiously, forgetting momentary about Moriarty. Paramedics are waiting a few feet away from them, fully equipped and ready to take the man into hospital at any moment but she waves at them dismissively, still observing Sherlock from the corner of her eye. He averts her gaze, concentring on the material still being cradled in his arms, trying to memorize every thread, each weave and knot with his fingertips. Lestrade glances at him front time to time worriedly, talking to an officer at the side.

She moves with grace, swiftly and before Sherlock has the time to react, she's already behind him, whispering into his ear venomously, tasting each syllable with pietism and joy "You fool, he left you, didn't he?" There's a distant echo of laughter in that hallow tone of her voice and Sherlock goes numb momentarily, his fists clenching around the jumper and skin blanching slowly until it's ashen white. "Poor little freaky detective once again left all alone?" She blows gently into his ear, tones mixing up in his head quickly, blending into one another and then growing painfully articulated once again.

"How sad." Donovan's chuckle resounds in his skull painfully, needles of her every breath sinking in but before she can say anything more, Sherlock whirrs around and grabs fistful of her hair, yanking her face dangerously close to his own, jumper streaming gently down the crook of his other arm.

"He didn't leave me." His eyes darken and gleam with fury she's never seen before and Donovan tries to back off somehow, suddenly frightened, but his grip is already iron-like, knuckles snow-white in-between her locks, voice as faint as the wind's breath. His whole body quivers, feverish, ragged breath with a minty aftertaste ghosting over her cheeks. With a jolt of surprise she notices within a second his eyelashes being broken and just how blood-shot his eyes are. Her legs are jelly-like and even though Anderson is just a few steps away from them, she can't find the voice to call for help. She's hypnotized, staring into his dot-like pupils, not being able to look away. She trembles at his harsh tone, venom and rage dripping from every sound he whirs. "He didn't, do you hear me? He. Didn't. Leave. Me."

Sherlock sneers for a moment at her, just the way she did all those times at him, her opened wide with shock eyes full of stars. He is inching closer and closer until their noses nearly brush. "Say one more thing, fuck-freak" he snarls, still not raising his voice, boring into her eyes and Donovan winces at the insult in spite of herself finally "and I swear, I take oath, I'll replace that fucking skull on my fire-place's pledge with your pickled head."

He bends down a little and murmurs silkily into her ear, ignoring the chill clearly going through her face. "I am a man of my word, whore."

And then a second passes and his face is once again blank, his hands once again stroking the jumper gently. Silently he walks up to Moriarty and Donovan just gapes at his back with her throat clenched as tightly as never before.


	8. Breath, part two

The road is bumpy and light flickers onto Sherlock's shut closed eyes, his head swaying back and forth to the rhythm of Moriarty's muffled and strained breath. It's cold in the ambulance, the high pitch of the sirens echoing against the metal doors dully, whispers of each member of the staff blending into one another, misting his head slightly. The sweater is damply heavy in his arms and Sherlock doesn't even dare to move so not to fall further down this awful path of ice like void he's been feeling build up in his chest. Even though it does sound childish and petty at best, he feels just as small and meaningless as every moment Mycroft is beside him, taunting and telling the world just as much more comfortable, more worthy and more needed he is by everyone.

Oh, brother, brother. What have we become?

 

"Hey, man," suddenly a hand begins to ghost over his shoulders and Sherlock trembles involuntarily, stopping kneading the material in-between his numb fingertips nervously. He slowly opens his eyes, looking surprised at a freckled face of a young girl hovering over him. She can't be older than twenty-something, cinereous fringe falling loosely down the sides of her face, the rest of her hair bound in a messy pony-tail at the base of her neck. The uniform she's clad in is way too big for her, sleeves rolled up comically high up her sunburnt elbows, big brownish eyes twinkling worriedly at him. "don't cry. Your boyfriend will be alright, we've seen worse cases than that. Just you see, he'll be patched up sooner than you dare to hope for. He'll live, so no need for depressing yourself just now. Everything will be alright. He'll be just fine."

Sherlock blinks at her slowly the moment her words hit his dozy ears, eyes getting bigger and bigger at each syllable. She shudders, not understanding, when he breaks into a fit of uncontrolled, low-pitched giggles the next moment, hugging the tattered piece of clothing closely to his quavering chest, uttering some incoherent mix of slurred words.

The air grows colder and he can swear he's freezing by the time sobs wreck his hunched body. There's a needle stuck in his arm and a sedative flows excruciatingly mercury-heavily, fast up his suddenly solid veins. The darkness invites Sherlock dancing, taping a melody in his head too akin to a telephone ring to let him sleep peacefully.

Just as voices start to buzz around him, John's laugh vibrates hauntingly in his pocket and he tries to stay up just for a second longer, breath going rapid and world spinning even faster and less merrily than before.

Back and forth.

Up and down.

Up into the sky.

And down the rabbit hole.

A never ending chase of the dark.


	9. Chlorine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtZyXnfvaXs 
> 
> Przemysław Gintrowski - _Tylko kołysanka_ ( _Only a lullaby_ , translation from Polish to English done by me)
> 
> Just sleep and sleep all the more  
> And lead me there  
> Where you are  
> I want to be where you are  
> In heaven, why not  
> In hell, in its deepest lore  
> I will be everywhere, everywhere will I be  
> Is it important where will it be?
> 
> So cuddle close and sleep  
> Only time does not do so  
> Because it has time, it is hard  
> Oh, like a stone indeed  
> Tomorrow you will awake the day  
> Tomorrow, I, your shadow  
> Will be everywhere, everywhere will I be  
> Even when I am no more
> 
> Just sleep and sleep all the more  
> Heaven blessed choir   
> Is looking down upon us  
> And it's only you  
> And it's only me  
> You, a little one so incomprehensible  
> God, life sometimes can be beautiful
> 
> Now cuddle close and sleep  
> Night filled with chocolate  
> Stars like candy cones  
> Eh, time to pick and taste each of them  
> Tomorrow awake the day  
> Tomorrow, I, your shadow  
> Will be everywhere, everywhere will I be  
> Even when I am no...

The darkness overwhelms him and it's too frightening to open the eyes on the spot when nothing but grey after-taste of it is everything that remains. Colours are flashing blindly through his closed eyelids, whispers just above his head misting his thoughts over, blending into the dull echo of the siren or some breath, metres if not miles away from his grasp. There's something cool being pressed against the side of his chest, sticky and smelly in its fluffy roughness. Sherlock isn't sure where his body begins and where cold hands of the paramedics end. Everything is liquid in action, one second he hears a creak of the car's doors being opened and then almost makes out the outline of a well illuminated building. Sounds are cascading too fast, too illogically down that awful headache blooming slowly in the background, an anxious, freezing him in-between the breaths thought echoing, forming and then dying over and over again.

The smell of chlorine sooths him into oblivion too quickly to have the heart beat slower in agony.

"Sir, wake up" Pain, agonizing pressure on his hand, too strong smells. Greyness once again. Everywhere, lights too bright onto his lifeless face. "Sir, come on. You can't lie here for eternity, we need you this instant, come on!"

Someone pinches him on the hands hard and, even if not done maliciously, it does hurt. Not badly enough to make his eyelids any lighter though, and so he tries to snuggle into the fingers he can blurrily imagine being closed firmly on both of his wrists, leaving bruises the size of a small plum. "Sir, please, I know it's hard but come on! Come on... come... co... me... oooooo..." A blur, a void, an echo slowly disappearing within the quiet whizzing wind he hears pounding in his ears.

Darkness.

Nothingness.

Coldness.

 

He dreams of being carried somewhere, arms dangling uselessly, everything flickering steadily, torn words humming monotonously in the background. His body feels so heavy and faces flash in front of his eyes, a kaleidoscopic mosaic twisting and growing with each second. Then there's their room on Baker Street and he can almost taste the bitter aroma of coffee and see that blasted dark wallpaper. He can almost hear the distant pitter-patter of rain onto the window-sills and a steady rhythm of fingers hitting keyboard. Laptop... John.

John.

"Sir, please! God, somebody help me with this guy, we need him because of that robbed marra this instant. Johnny, be useful for once and get something smelly instead of wandering like always!" Something cool is being pressed onto his face, moving lightly from his forehead onto the cheeks. The voice is strained and breaking at some points, too tired of screaming to sound elegantly.

Johnny.

_Johnny boy._

He feels his eyes twitch involuntarily. "Guess he's coming round, doctor. Johnny! Johnny, don't look for those smelling salts any more, they ain't needed now!

_Moriarty._

 

Sherlock opens his eyelids slowly, sleep still misting his eyes. The corridor is painfully white, fluorescent lamps pulsing with yellow and green undertones, dark points fluttering in front of him. There's that girl with a messy pony-tail once again, kneeling and whispering something he can't understand. With a stoic expression fixed once again onto his face, he soon finds himself being led up the stairs and many hallways, asked thousands of questions he can't really force himself to answer. His tongue is wooden-like, the inside of his lips awfully sandy and dry. City echoes on the outside with sea-like mass of blinding lights, the whole ripping muscles noise of a breaking at hand sunrise.

Everything feels too unreal to even breath properly, memories swimming in and out Sherlock's outstretched in vain hands, his shoulders bumping from time to time painfully onto the walls and the girl's as lanky as his own frame.

"Sir, please. I need to fill in the folders, who's that guy to you? Is there any blood relation between the two of you? Sir, please" she tugs at his elbows relentlessly, blinking those big doe eyes and Sherlock vaguely tries to think whether he's seen such a kind of irises already or not. It's the only logical thing now and his mind stirs, desperately trying to get back on track, to let the thoughts flood him once again, just like in the old times. With each silent minute, with each tentatively taken step, the mist quietly leaves him unmasked and bare under all of the damp clothing and bruised sense of rightness.

There are no heroes, so why should any villains exist?

He glances absent-mindedly at her warm flesh and wonders if his hands are as life-full and real. Her neck is swan like, hair cascading gently down some other uniform onto a stained, old jumper. It seems woolen, with a few crystals reflecting the hallway in a tiny universe of its own. It feels wrong to stare so intently but he can't really help himself, hands clenching around damp with sweat air. Moans echo poisonously from small rooms, mixing up and Sherlock gets the horrible after-taste of not remembering something important, way more important than just some musings onto human body.

The girl glares at him, not really looking angry. He feels like panicking the moment she suddenly leaves his side just to come back a few seconds later with a cup full of liquid golden life. Coffee smells oddly fantasy-like, its bitter aroma clashing viciously with the sterile air surrounding her. She smiles at him shyly, sipping onto her own black tea quickly. "You'll feel better after it, I assure you. No wonder you've withdrawn, they were quite surprised themselves at seeing such a peculiar sight." She gestures lightly with a flicker of her hand towards her bright irises, giggling nervously when no reply comes. They still walk, a slower pace this time, the halls inviting them with darkness being slowly hushed away with at least a dozen of new lamps.

"Sir," she stops in front of him, hands reaching up his face and just as expected he flinches, blinking hazily. "if you don't answer my questions now, you won't be able to see him until well past next week."

He glances at her through the lashes, looking lost. "As far as I know," he begins, his voice hoarse and far too loud in the corridor, "nurses can't do anything of the sort, even if pressed with charges."

"You don't look like an immediate relative of his," the girl mutters unabashedly, not tearing her eyes from his. She smiles, taking quick steps and soon opens a dark wooden door "and thus we don't have to let you see him any time soon, sir. More work for us means only less time for treating him and being so stubborn isn't the wisest thing to do now, sir, believe me."

Sherlock isn't sure why, but her eyes seem as cold as an ocean the moment he takes a calming breath and staggers into the room full of cotton-candy coloured pillows and mythical plush toys. It all feels wrong and blood turns into ice in his veins, once again misting things over.

Everything glitters before his eyes just like those ice flowers in the cab.


	10. False names

The interview she makes with him is surprisingly quick and yet thorough. She asks him for the relationship they have (of course they're friends, who would dare to think otherwise?), Moriarty's family status or any relatives living close (he's an orphan and Sherlock is the only one close to him, it's simple as that), any drug or food related allergies and finally names of the two. Sherlock looks at her dully, he's mind already racing, thinking out a good solution.

"We went to a bar when all of this happened" the lie goes silkily past his lips, he's eyes full of doubtless sadness. "He caught himself in the middle of one of those fistfights and I rushed to his aid the moment I noticed everything. My pockets have been empty ever since I rushed with him onto the street so I can't provide you with my ID at the moment. I'm really sorry for the trouble and God, it just couldn't get any worse, could it?"

 

He tries to think it's John he's talking about and it goes easier, lies tangling and creating an invincible, tight web across the eyes and heart of the girl. He can almost see her throat clenching with sympathy and anger. 

 

"I'm sure you won't lie to me, sir. You're one of the good souls out there, I can see it easily. It must've been awful to deal with a street-gang, those young people can more frightful than true habitual offenders these days! Just give me your full name and actual address. We'll get the rest later when everything will be less hectic and painful. No need to worry, sir."

He nods his head, staring at a small coffee table in front of him. It's quite old and a bit dusty, ornaments on the top a bit clumsily made and yet quite interesting. It seems most of the things in this room (fist a day room, then a hospital room and now an office for walls are too bright and cheerful, the smell of the chlorine still lingers in the curtains and documents haven't been really sorted thoroughly, postcards mixing up with statements and charts) have been cheaply purchased, perhaps in the last moment available. There are two old looking cabinets full of neon green box files, two classically looking dark arm-chairs and a couple of shelves filled with various porcelain or clay figures. He eyes them momentarily, looking then square into her eyes, pupils a bit enlarged.

"My name's Daniel Bams and I don't really have any fixed address nowadays," he shrugs his shoulders, tension slowly wearing off with each word, with each promise of stripping off with a new identity. Things go smoothly, her eyes shining with understanding. He sighs, clenching his elbows and the charm works just like he thought it would, her fingers trembling on the paper she fills with his answers. The more details he'll let slip, the more believable and yet implausible the tale will sound. It's always like that, with Mycroft, with the Yard, with everyone. Lies, lies, lies. Her hair shines in the dimmed light and he closes his eyes for a moment, not stopping in his talk. Perhaps a nice change in the accent will be just the thing doctor orders? "I'm still lookin' for a nice job in here, to tell the truth. Wanna change my life a bit, you know. Things got dull where I previously lived so now time for the capital city."

 

His smile is strained and it nearly leaks with false sweetness but she seems to accept it as a sign of nervousness and brushed emotions and just smiles back. Her teeth are dazzlingly white and so shimmers in the light just like her hair. She smoothes out the creases on her uniform less awkwardly than before and tugs a few stray strands of her hair behind the left ear. "And what about your friend? Has he come with you to London?"

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, feeling emotions swirl and tangle inside of him. Just what exactly should he say to have an easy access to Moriarty round the clock? It's a matter of life (of the most dear one) and he knows he can't miss. He swallows thickly, the wind swaying various branches with a howl behind the window. He can't help a small chuckle escape his lips after a minute or two, each sound higher and less sane than before.

"I've met him a couple of months ago here but really, it's been just a "hi, how are you?" type of a relationship then. Just yesterday we met again because of our mutual friend and I must say it was a breakthrough." He looks at her thoughtfully, his eyes misting over for a moment and he can almost feel her eagerness for details, the air getting warmer and thicker with each passing second. But not now, dear, not now. He glances at her through the eyelashes, lips puckering for a split of seconds but she doesn't seem to notice. It all feels like an audition to a play or already a premiere. A good actor can't forget his lines. And so, Sherlock utters, with embarrassment well hiding his anger and self-pity. " His name is Harry Tigapac and we were supposed to start looking for a flat round the city this week."

"So you're a pair then? I bet the two of us would look lovely together!" She runs her eyes over his face, beaming.

Sherlock stares at her, not understanding. When exactly has the talk took such a direction? He can't even begin to describe the horrible wave of loathing and disgust he feels swelling his insides the moment he hears those few words. He can't help but stare daggers at her, half wishing to be able to kill Moriarty already so he won't have to go through such humiliating things like this. He and Moriarty of all people! Just fantastic! 

"Pardon me, miss, but I can't really see why that should be any interest of yours, even if it was true."

The girl blinks, surprised at his harsh tone. She back off slightly, nuzzling almost into the back of her armchair. "No need to get nervous, sir. I'm really sorry for the last bit, sir. It won't happen again."

 

Her eyes glitter though when he doesn't look straight into them and soon the interview ends, all the needed date already gathered.

 

Sherlock can't visit Jimmy boy until next few days and it's only half true that he's enjoying the little freedom he might get because of that. Moriarty's phone's casing feels like liquid metal onto his skin when he sticks his hands into the pockets roughly, having previously ensured which room that blasted son of a bitch will be lying in.

217th. Hope some ghosts will start haunting him there soon, Sherlock smiles to himself grimly, not even waiting for the girl to say anything more.

Some research must be done in the meantime and he's fairly sure who might be able to help him at first with a couple of details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cookies for the person who gets the references right (names could be harder as they're not fully anagrams). They're inspired by one of the many Sherlockian franchises.


	11. Regret

The room is dark as curtains were closed a few hours ago and the dawn hasn't come yet. It's stuffy, the air weighty with the smell of chlorine and painkillers. It seems oddly fitting, as Jim struggles to take each of his hollow breaths, carefully feeling his surroundings with the tip of his fingers. His muscles twitch with effort while he clenches and unclenches his hands around the bed sheets, moving his head lightly from right to left. He blinks his closed tightly eyes, moaning lightly.

Sherlock can't be fooled though and doesn't hope too much for he knows the bastard isn't really ready to wake up yet. That pitiful clenching and unclenching of his limbs, slight alternations of the speed of his chest movements or the depth of his breathing don't make his heart beat faster any longer. He got used to all those grimaces upon Moriarty's face, those quiet groans and nonsensical words he whispers in the middle of the night. But, if he's sleeping all the time, does he register the change of night into day or the other way around? Does he even know that he's in hospital and his worst enemy is sitting beside him constantly, aching for any news of his recovery?

Sherlock used to toy with those ideas during the earliest hours in the morning or deeply into the night. Now, he lost his interest even in them, looking out of the window constantly, not being able to focus on anything for longer than a few minutes.

He gets up from his plastic chair and walks round the room, stretching a bit his numb backside and hips. He hates hospital furniture, all edges digging into his frame painfully and making it either impossible not to fidget all the time through the day or sleep at night. Sherlock rubs his eyes tiredly, thinking back to the last time he slept in his own bed at Baker Street. What, already nearly 21 days, old chap? At first, only days after having found Moriarty clad in John's sweater, he wasn't worried too much and continued carrying on with his life as though everything would come out just fine. It was supposed to, after all, because he's the goddamn Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world.

After having checked all of the possibilities, gathering everything from the memory of Moriarty's Nokia, checking out the business cards, places and their owners thoroughly, calling everyone mentioned in Jimmy boy's phonebook, even going back to Mycroft just to talk and get some news and ending up instead screaming into his face that all of this was his fault and Sherlock can't be bothered to call himself his brother anymore, Sherlock started to slowly realize that for one of those limited number of times, he was losing. Moriarty's phone was empty, just a few names in the phonebook with already destroyed SIM cards, neither files, nor calls or any texts preserved. The bastard had had the memory defragmentated a couple of times and there was just no sign of any activity ever done via that telephone. It hadn't been charged for some time already and the batteries quickly run low, even after having some techies try every possible trick to bring them to life.

Cards, on the other hand, proved to lead to two ambiguous but legal and normal nonetheless clubs in the central part of the city, each dedicated to different theme. One was designed to resemble the 70s and the other was futuristically furnished. Sherlock felt the sudden rush of adrenaline then, getting excited at having the case untied so easily. Those were dead ends though and the shock of realizing it all too late resulted in him buying the biggest available packet of cigarettes, fuck his and the clubs' rules. No one had ever seen Moriarty there, even when at least 10 000 pounds were shown and a couple of teary eyed moments of explaining his situation of a grief-stricken family friend that just learnt of Jimmy's putative kidnapping.

The bartenders were nice and didn't even cuss once while talking to him which surprised and yet made Sherlock suspicious. Guests acted just the same way towards him, in both clubs, and there wasn't even a single thing he could waylay himself onto. Cigarettes were bitter on his tongue, making him cough for some time but Sherlock swallowed the watery saliva thickly and continued on walking without glancing back at the shadowy buildings. There were many possibilities still and he wasn't going to waste any of them just then.

The mobile case wasn't anything remarkable as he once thought it might have proved to be. It was grey, with matted strings of silk attached in various places. There were no initials, no ticket, nothing. Even a lost receipt or a handkerchief.

Oh and the paper scraps. They proved to be nothing but fragments of some older newspapers reports on his cases. He should've known Moriarty was an even more sentimental fool than he himself.

It was and is useless. He can't eat, he can't drink, he can't get his thoughts together. When everything proved to lack sense, to lack even a stupid, little hint, he run to the hospital and demanded being shown Moriarty's things. Of course, he had played his role of Daniel before that flawlessly and soon was digging though the pockets once again, desperate to find anything, a ticket, a map, a particular kind of brand apart from Westwood which he knew wouldn't be there.

There was nothing. Fucking air caught up between the folds of clothing and blood which proved to be only Moriarty's as well as all of the fingerprints.

He's asked Lestrade to look at this, Donovan with Anderson even and Molly, not informing her of course just whose clothing and peculiar lack of evidence concerning, they all were. Scotland Yard is on the case simultaneously even though he'd rather have them out of it but nothing has been proved, nothing new came up and nothing is known for sure.

Mycroft had called him at least fifty times and once tried cornering him at the in front of their flat but Sherlock just flipped his coat at him, snarling that if he wanted his neck broken, he'd eventually succeed in getting it done once and for all.

_"Sherlock, listen to me, just this one time. Let me explain it all to you!" Mycroft's eyes were unsurprisingly dry even though his voice was breaking and Sherlock wondered vaguely just why exactly he didn't feel as satisfied at the tone as he once dreamt he'd be. There was a neat trail of swollen and bruised skin tissue on the man's cheek and Sherlock smiled bitterly, wondering how exactly he managed to do that in the end. They were going up the stairs quickly as Mycroft couldn't be simply thrown out, being the stronger one of the two. Sherlock stared hard at the face which had always been strained either in a sneer or an expression filled with boredom. But then it was frightenly open, ready to break into thousands of pieces before him when he opened the doors to their flat. Oddly, Sherlock didn't feel happiness at the thought, rolling a half-used cigarette between his index finger and thumb, even though he tried telling himself the contrary. It didn't soothe the painful coldness in the pit of his stomach even for a minute, though._

_"You've spied on us all the time, day and night, and now what? Forgot to switch on the camera?" Sherlock's voice was raspy from the cold and the cigarette smoke, one of his most arrogant smirks back in place. Mycroft could be weak if he wanted to but not he. Never. Oh, what would Mummy say if she saw her eldest son reduced nearly to a puddle of tears like that? Oh, shame on you, dear brother, shame on you indeed. "You hire people to have their eyes on me all round the clock and then what? Suddenly there is no one left, is that what you want me to believe?"_

_"You told me yourself to stop pestering you with my, how did you put it? ah, yes. Pathological over protectiveness. You told me to switch off the cameras, Sherlock, you yourself!" Mycroft was breathing hard through his nose, trying to calm himself down which was proving a much harder task than he thought it'd be, it seemed. He looked around the room they were standing in, his umbrella clutched tightly in one of his hands. His eyes went back to Sherlock's and then closed themselves for a moment. "I didn't know you'd quarrel that day, you know that. I decided to stop trying so hard when it obviously wasn't bringing us closer but rather further apart. I did it for you, Sherlock and because Mummy was getting worried once again."_

_"Don't you dare bring her into all of this," Sherlock mumbled, eyeing him with growing irritation. He took a deep drag and stalked closer, well until their breaths became one and Mycroft's odd perfumes filled his nostrils. "You knew the moment he was gone, he was gone for good. Don't you dare lie to me now, Mycroft, you didn't tell me until Moriarty showed up."_

_He puffed a cloud of smoke into his face, smiling coldly at Mycroft's shocked face. "You wasted the most precious time. After three days, Mycroft, after three goddamn days you tell me all about it. I hate you. You know that by now, don't you?"_

_"Sherlock, I… I 'm so sorry, I never wished for John to be in such a situation, you know that. Please, hear me out, I…" Mycroft pleaded him with his gaze but Sherlock turned his back onto him, walking along the shelves looking for an ashtray absent-mindedly, having already forgotten about him being still in the room. Mycroft came closer, biting his lips. He extended his hand gingerly and touched Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing it in what he thought was a reassuring manner. He whispered, not being sure of his voice any longer, "I thought I could find him until you noticed anything. I didn't want to worry you with something I could have avoided. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I really I am."_

_Sherlock tensed visibly, frozen with the cigarette in his mouth and at first, Mycroft though he didn't hear his last words at all. He opened his lips to say how truly sorry he was once again when Sherlock began shaking and uttered with difficulty, "Get out. Get the fuck out of this flat and never come back."_

_"But Sherlock, please, you don't understand, I…"_

_"Get out."_

_"But, I…"_

_"I said, get the fuck out of here." Sherlock's entire body was shaking then as if he had a fever and Mycroft glanced at him with regret, swallowing tears that began to gather in his eyes. He made his way quietly to the door, not looking back. The umbrella was heavy in his hand and when he finally came out, he didn't even had to hide his face for it was raining cats and dogs, obscuring the bitter-sweet trails down his cheeks from any curious glances. God, he hadn't cried in so many years._

_Sherlock observed the walking silhouette through the window, tremblingly rocking to and fro with a fag-end slowly burning his skin. He didn't register the pain, he didn't even care for the time being about anything. Mycroft's words echoed in his head and when the first wave of guilt came, Sherlock felt water flow down his face as if it was him in the rain, not his brother. Ash gathered on his fingers and he blew it off silently, biting his lips to the point of bruising them._

_He wouldn't be weak. There was a solution. There must have been one way or another._

Mycroft hasn't called him once ever since.


	12. Emptiness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taken from English Wikipedia:
> 
> MDMA (3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine) – colloquially known as ecstasy, often abbreviated as "E" or "X" – is an entactogenic drug of the phenethylamine and amphetamine class of drugs.
> 
> Some of the most common effects reported by users include:  
> # A general and subjective alteration in consciousness,  
> # A strong sense of inner peace and self-acceptance,  
> # Diminished fear, anxiety, and insecurity,  
> # Extreme mood lift with accompanying euphoria,  
> # Feelings of intimacy and even love for others,  
> # Improved self-confidence,  
> # The ability to discuss normally anxiety-provoking topics with marked ease,  
> # An intensification of all of the bodily senses (hearing, touch, smell, vision, taste),  
> # Mild psychedelia, consisting of mental imagery and auditory and visual distortions,  
> # Stimulation, arousal, and hyperactivity (e.g., many users get an "uncontrollable urge to dance" while under the influence),  
> # Increased energy and endurance,  
> #Analgesia or decreased pain sensitivity.
> 
> After-effects  
> Some effects reported by some users once the acute effects of MDMA have worn off include:  
> # Anxiety and paranoia,  
> # Depression,  
> # Irritability,  
> # Fatigue,  
> # Aches and pains, usually from excessive physical activity (e.g., dancing),  
> # Exhaustion,  
> # Loss of appetite.
> 
> When they occur, these after sub-acute effects are typically reported to last up to 3 to 7 days, with the exception of depression, which in some cases has become chronic.

"What a healthy breakfast indeed."

Even though the tablets taste horrendously and Sherlock has to fight a wave of nausea upon feeling them touch his tongue, he washes a handful of them down his throat with a mouthful of water from the tap in one quick gulp. The liquid feels sticky on his palate, tasting of iron and for a moment, the bitter aftertaste of MDMA capsules remains glued to his gums.

Oh my God, he wants to feel something once again, to have even a glimpse at the peacefulness he could have never found himself. Drugs welcome here with loving arms just like they did in college and Sherlock greedily holds onto the sweet illusions, the world more open, details like the splattering of the rain onto the windows vivid as ever.

When he gazes at himself in the mirror, the world seems not to be able to stop spinning round and round. He needs a couple of seconds to steady himself against the wash basin, his legs nearly giving up under his weight, a splitting headache forming behind the eyes.

His hair is messy, unruly locks reaching lightly past his shoulders already. It feels strange to look, to observe the changes daily, each bang under his closing constantly eyes growing darker, each nerve ceasing to function properly.

Toothpaste is doughy and lacks its cap.

Is having a tic a sign of a nervous breakdown or rather crying around, smashing things and screaming obscenities? What is more important, the wave of hormones flooding the brain or the sheer knowledge of the value of a loss? Why exactly all those people keep nagging at him, keep coming and going past, saying that nothing could be done, nothing could end up well.

To hell with all those people, he smiles to himself. Cigarettes are hot between his fingertips, water staining the tissue paper in circles.

Can he drink coffee after these pills or maybe having some cognac would be a better idea?

Sherlock starts laughing as his pulse quickens, the sound metallic and hollow in his ears, tiredly echoing against the tiles of the hospital toilet. The pills start kicking in, euphoria befalling onto his dulled senses. His knees buckle finally and he grunts, trying to stabilize himself against the porcelain, sweat gathering on his brows, an eerie smile plastered onto his lips.

The world is so beautiful when it starts spinning once again as he holds for dear life onto the tap.

 

"Sir, we cannot let you come in, unless you have a pass." A blonde is lustrating DI Lestrade with her pale blue eyes full of evident distaste when he shows up in front of Moriarty's room. She is shorter than him, a bulky frame hardly reaching past his shoulder. He sighs and flashes his badge, smiling at the mix of surprise and alert coming onto her face. She doesn't say anything, nodding her head and then nearly running away from him down the corridor.

Well, it's not like Lestrade wants anyone like that near himself but that was at least…

Bizarre, that's a better word.

The hospital he found himself in isn't one of the cheapest, rather the extra super class of medical care in Britain. Walls are sickly white of course and fluorescent lights are on all day making it look like a horrendous, sterile desert decorated with various posters from time to time or an overgrown palm tree in a corner. Since coming in here a couple of minutes ago, he has seen only the staff going to and fro, heels clapping rhythmically onto the tiles and linoleum.

He needs to find Sherlock and talk some sense into him finally or else that relative of his in the Ministry will make him quite a surprise when it comes to Yard. Holmeses and their problems, always the specialty of Gregory Lestrade, right?

He gets himself a cup of the strongest coffee from the machine and gets closer to the vitrified halfway door.

Not much can be seen inside but he's fairly sure that apart from the still silhouette on the vast bed near some half-opened windows, there's no sign of that well-known mop of black locks. There is a solitude chair in the centre, facing the windows and Lestrade knows there is not much left to do for him than waiting. He finds himself a cozy place near the wall where he goes to and fro beside, sipping the dark liquid and thinking of a way to get out of this whole situation.

They checked all the trails left by Sherlock, they did check them five times each at least. The man stopped picking the phone when they wanted to deny another hypothesis and Lestrade couldn't blame him for that. Five months already passed and there is no sign of being even close to untangling the whole thing. Try as he may, Lestrade feels truly sorry and doesn't know what to expect the moment he'll see Holmes.

They couldn't get in any contact with him for the past two months, even though the Inspector himself has visited the hospital, their flat and every place he could have think of. He tried talking to the man, trying to think of something that could either get his mind on track or simply get the gloomy thoughts off of his mind for a while. It was no use though, Sherlock either not speaking a word to him when he'd come and stay with him, sitting just inches from Moriarty for over two hours or giving no responses to his emails or texts containing anything but details of the case.

At first he thought that Sherlock might be back to being his old self if he got him back into danger, solving complicated cases, thinking those hideous thoughts of his and just being that cold bastard everybody hated and yet started to miss over the time. Once even Sally Donovan went with him to talk some sense into the man but the moment she saw him hunched over the bed, all the arrogance gone and replaced with resignation, she stopped dead in her track and refused to come in. If Lestrade hadn't known better, he'd have thought he saw tears shimmering in her eyes as she stormed down the corridor, her coat lashing the air with a crack.

That day Lestrade brought folders on a new case they had had problems with, something akin to Moriarty's work in the past. When he handed them to Sherlock, the latter just snorted, closing his eyes and pushing his hand away. He whispered that they wouldn't bribe him with quizzes or puzzles good for a five year old and Lestrade smiled at the dead certainty of the sentence.

He didn't know however, what to do when Sherlock sighed and hid his face in his hands, adding: "If you think you can do nothing to help me find him, I don't want to work for the Yard anymore. It's just senseless now, Lestrade."

That day was the last he saw Sherlock in the hospital. Now his mobile seems dead and no one, even that brother of his in the Ministry knows where he is. Lestrade can't help a shudder run up his spine as he remembers the phone call from Mycroft Holmes this morning. The man's cold accent and long pauses to let his words sink into the Inspector's ears thoroughly. To him, the guy was even in a worse condition than his younger sibling and Lestrade sure prays not to see him soon. He doesn't want to have nightmares other than his usual ones.

It's precisely ten thirty in the morning when the same nurse he met before bumps into him, hauling a giggling man clad in a baggy, worn sweater and an unstitched in a few places pair of dark jeans. The few left-over droplets of the coffee falls onto the tiles and Lestrade can feel his patience leave him. Oh, he'll tell her just alright what he thinks of rude individuals like her, too stuck up to look where they are going, just wait, dear sister! but words freeze on his tongue the moment he gets a glimpse of the youth's face. His black curly hair is of medium length, snaking onto his shoulders in waves, obscuring the frantically moving eyes thoroughly as he keeps chuckling nervously, grappling against the strong grip the woman has on one of his arms. His skin is ghostly white, slightly bristly and sweaty. His hands are shaking and it looks as if the last meal he's eaten was served in the previous century.

When Sherlock notices Lestrade staring at him, clear panic shows in his eyes. It seems to sober him enough to manage some strength for he wrestles out finally and runs for it towards the exit before the stunned man can even utter a word.


End file.
